


HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T

by charliewalkertexasranger



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Don't Read This, Evil Plans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nipple Licking, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Prequel, Rough Sex, Scratching, Seduction, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliewalkertexasranger/pseuds/charliewalkertexasranger
Summary: Charlie gets a text from Jill. Henevergets texts from Jill.





	HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this in a public computer lab and i don't want to know what the people sitting behind me thought
> 
> anyway cue the sax solo from careless whisper because they gon FUCK but you probably could tell that from the tags

The heat drains from Charlie’s body in one heavy rush that nearly stops his heart in his chest, when he first sees, stationary on his phone screen like it were as normal as anything else, who his latest incoming text message is from.  
  
_6:24pm >>i have something to tell you  
  
_Jill?  
  
He takes a deep breath. She has no reason to be texting him; he wouldn’t really call them friends, especially not in a traditional sense, if friends were supposed to hang out with each other outside of school, and exchange more than a few sentences here and there, and see each other because they want to see each other and not because one follows the other’s lifelong crush around like some sort of religious disciple would. It’s a marvel she even has his number in the first place. And because they aren’t close, if she had any legitimate reason to contact him, it would be because something either really good or really bad just happened. Both will be earth-shattering.  
  
All Charlie knows is that he isn’t ready to have his earth shattered.  
  
At least not by _Jill_. Kirby giving into his affections after four years of ignoring him or Robbie getting a sudden influx of web traffic and bathing in that sweet, sweet ad revenue would both change his life for the better—he can already taste the warmth of Kirby’s lips and smell the vaguely sweet reek of gasoline as Robbie pumps it into his brand-new Dodge Viper—but he has no clue what could happen to Jill to benefit him, so he feels justified in indulging his unfurling anxiety and assuming that this life-changing event will be negative.  
  
Besides, nothing seems to ever work out for him. Why would this be any different?  
  
Or maybe Jill just wants to talk about her cousin Sidney coming to town in a couple of weeks, knowing that Charlie’s infatuated with the woman’s legacy. Maybe she just wants to ask if she can borrow his copy of _Stab 4_ and has no other way to tell him except to put him on edge for a few minutes. Fifty-fifty.  
  
His phone shivers in his trembling fingers as he attempts, poorly, to tap up a message back. His fingers are shaking too much. The result is closer to Klingon than it is to English. And when he’s finished, instead of fixing his numerous jarring mistakes, he sits there for a moment, and he’s surprised at how little difference being on his bed and comfortable makes. He’s still nervous. He has to stare down into the brightness of his phone screen for a moment to make sure he has a chance to breathe.

He’s never been so affected by anything. He’s always thought that, maybe, he can’t feel emotions like other people can, because he’s always calm, cool, collected, never bothered, never loud about his suffering, even in the very worst of times. But he just can’t shake the feeling that something bad might happen, maybe to him, maybe to Jill, maybe to them both.

What is this about?  
  
He doesn’t want to, because it means he’ll get a response back, but he fixes his errors to make everything he wants to say legible, and then he sends it, without so much as a second thought. If she really does want to borrow his copy of _Stab 4_ , then he’s going to laugh at himself and never let himself get so upset over nothing ever, ever again, because he really prefers feeling frozen and publicly divorced from human emotion, angry and sad and dissatisfied only in the privacy of his own mind.  
  
_6:26pm >>Yeah? What is it?  
  
6:26pm>>it wouldn’t feel right unless i told u in person charlie. I mean you’re the person who everyone comes to when their life is spiraling down faster than they can climb their way back up, right  
  
_Charlie swallows.  
  
What in the name of literally any deity does she need from him? Though he is a bit more than flattered that she’d refer to him in such a way, and he supposes it’s true. When Robbie’s dad decided it was a good idea to file for divorce without telling his wife, then pack up and leave for Florida to live with a stripper he met online, Charlie was the shoulder to cry on. Even Trevor used him that way, once, when he and Jill got in a big fight, and despite the fact that it was incredibly awkward because they both hated each other, Charlie thought that he did a good job. It was ironic, but not being able to feel anything made it much easier to relate to others and stay calm enough to guide them through their problems.  
  
But now Charlie’s much more disturbed than he was earlier, and a thousand times more anxious. He reckons that this must be what it’s like to actually feel emotions.  
  
How’d Jill know that his dad wouldn’t be home tonight? How'd she know to pick  _this_ night? Then Charlie remembers exactly how she would know, and that soothes him a little bit… at least she’s not stalking him.

He’d told Robbie about it. And once Robbie knows something, pretty much everyone else at Woodsboro High knows it, too. Closet Boy is a great best friend, everything Charlie could have ever asked for and one of the few examples of mercy from God in Charlie’s miserable life, but the guy is cursed with the affliction of never shutting his little pink mouth, around anyone but especially around his friends, and having a camera strapped to his head fifteen hours a day only exacerbates the issue.

_6:27pm >>You got lucky, then. Dad’s out drinking, as usual; I tell myself that at least he’s not Robbie’s dad. Come when you like. He’ll be gone until at least four in the morning, probably._  
  
_6:27pm >>ok. I’ll b over then_

Charlie sets his phone on his nightstand and stops to study his wall because he’s got nothing better to do. There are more posters than empty space, to be honest, almost all of various movies— _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ , _Stab_ and _Stab 3_ , _Children of the Corn_ , _Candyman_ , _Final Destination 2_. He’s a bit obsessive, like that. He could ramble on for hours about all the movies that really get stuck in his mind, the mind constantly addled with analyzing and dismantling plots and characters and motivations. He waits for the doorbell to ring just as he is.

Despite all their lack of meaningful interaction up to this point implying differently, Jill doesn’t live that far away. She could walk over in a matter of five or six minutes, and Charlie’s good at waiting; Kirby taught him that, and, now, he’s the most patient person he knows. Four years is a very long time and five or six minutes is nothing, but both feel like blips in his existence, because of all the willingness to wait curled up inside of him. He has no choice with Kirby and he has no choice now.

Then, before he knows it, he hears the squeaky chirp of the bell echoing through the house. Jill actually came, meaning this wasn’t just some prank—he could already picture Jill laughing her ass off, huge grin practically carved into her pale face, with Kirby and Olivia leaning in on either side of her to see the messages she was sending him, and he's surprised that his mental image wasn't correct.

He heaves himself to his feet and heads out into the hallway to start down the stairs. Whatever it is, Charlie feels some kind of urge to support Jill through what's troubled her into contacting him, even, if, sometimes, it feels like he barely, barely knows her, and that she’s more of a background character to his life, present, seen, sometimes acknowledged, but never given a full speaking line. 

When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Charlie expects himself to hesitate in front of the door, but he doesn’t. He closes in within three steps, and his hand grips the knob; his wrist jerks it.  
  
He knows as soon as he sees Jill’s face that it is something he’ll never forget, something to be etched permanently into his memory. Her eyes, normally clear and brown and… perfect, if he dare say that while being cursed with living as himself, forever neglected by love, are wide and gleaming with tears that glisten in the sunlight that streams over her face. Appearing both disheveled and groomed at the same time, there are just enough stray strands, bent in twisted lines like streaks of lightning, frizzing off of her scalp that his attention is called to their presence, but not enough that he can pinpoint that she hasn’t brushed her hair. Pale cheeks are flushed pink, and the skin around her eyes is a pale rosy red. She’s obviously been crying, and he can’t help but feel a rush of sympathy for her.

But he’s nervous, and confused, so he doesn’t talk first. And why shouldn't he be confused? She chose him when she has Olivia and Kirby, and Trevor, the jerk of a boyfriend who Charlie swears is sixty percent water and forty percent smugness, to dump all her problems on. She even has Robbie—Charlie figured, up until this moment, that she would have gone to confide in someone like Robbie, someone who documents everything, including her possible mental breakdown, before she came to Charlie, because, as calm as he is, Charlie’s not exactly emotionally literate. He’s made it more than abundantly clear to everyone that if emotions were English, he’d be in one of those uncontacted South American tribes with no exposure to the developed world. He gets by on the fact that he can fake empathy and cultivate logical solutions, and, of course, the relationships he sees in movies.

But here Jill is anyway, despite all of those reasons working against her decision, and Charlie cannot locate a reason why.  
  
“Charlie,” she whimpers, biting her lip. She peers up at him with those eyes, which are still brimming with the tears that now run freely down her face at every available moment. “I don’t know what to do…”  
  
Charlie’s heart breaks for her, even if he doesn’t know quite what’s wrong.  
  
“Here,” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “You can come in. We’ll talk about it, I guess…”  
  
He’s not sure punctuating it with uncertainty like that, as if to brush her off as an annoyance, unimportant, undesired, unwanted, was the right idea, but in the heat of the moment, he can never quite find the right words to say around girls his age, no matter who the girl actually is.  
  
A smile flickers across her broken face, gone in an instant but most certainly there when it was.  
  
“I can’t thank you enough…”

"I know I like horror movies, but I don't like seeing real people hurt... especially not you."  
  
Charlie leads her inside, helps her up the stairs with an arm wrapped over her shoulders like she can’t begin to conquer steps on her own. It’s then, looking at her, that he notices the bag she has, clutched by the handle in one fist. It’s just one of those little fabric tote bags with flowers on it, something a girl might own—maybe Charlie’s not as socially illiterate with girls as he thought, if that stood out to him as something a girl could have—but he’s not sure of the contents. He chalks it down to her possibly having something to show him, something that could relate to the reason why she’s crying.  
  
When they reach Charlie’s room, Jill is struggling to breathe beneath a fountain of sobs; Charlie makes sure that she gets to sit down on the bed first and put her bag up against the headboard before he even thinks of sitting down next to her, because he’s terrified that she’s going to pass out and die, right there, suffocated in her own tears.  
  
But she makes it, and he finds himself at her side, seated a few inches away so he can comfort her without seeming like a creep.  
  
She’s the one who closes the gap by scooting a little closer. She must really need a friend.  
  
He’s just confused why she chose _him_.  
  
“Okay,” he says, not having to try much to maintain a therapist-esque level of calmness; texting, where he can’t see faces or hear tones, effectively crippling him, is the only thing that gets him riled up. “What happened?”  
  
Jill’s breaths, already heavy and ragged, hitch in her mouth.

And then she says something that makes Charlie’s entire soul evaporate in his body.  
  
“No one knows but you, but... yesterday, Trevor told me he’s been fucking Jenny Randall… for _three weeks_. And… now he… he...”  
  
Her composure, that which was already flimsy and held so clumsily on top of that, barely able to get her through a complete sentence, falls to the ground and shatters into tiny shards of what she once was, irreparably broken.  
  
And Charlie feels something clench in his chest, like a fist. He is warm, and angry, and his heart is thundering beneath his sternum, pounding in his ears.  
  
How _dare_ he. How dare Trevor do that. Charlie has had to stand still every day of his life, lying in wait to ambush what he wants, that being Kirby. And Trevor got a girl like Jill, _Jill_ , and he just couldn’t find it within himself to be satisfied with that? Charlie’s been kicked down, and Trevor had it all, but Trevor still couldn’t accept that he, the alpha male, had amassed his share...? Charlie supposes that the only thing keeping him from being even more enraged by this is that he always knew that Trevor would do this, that someone like Trevor could never be happy with what he had and would always need more. It was a matter of _when_ , not _if_. It didn’t hit him out of nowhere like an invisible car on a silent country road, the way it hit Jill.  
  
Jill sniffs.  
  
“I gave him everything, Charlie, and then he just left me for another girl like it didn’t mean anything…”

Now she’s literally crying on his shoulder, her weight slumped into his chest, and he has no idea what to do or what she wants. All he knows is that he hates Trevor more than ever.  
  
“What an asshole,” Charlie says. “You were too good for him, anyway. He wasn’t going to treat you right.”  
  
It’s foreign, reassuring someone, and he has no idea how to do it. But what he said seems to please Jill anyway, like she’s aware that he probably can’t do much better, like she’s aware that he’s lost in a pool of emotions he doesn’t understand and that he’s not in the right condition to be making persuasive speeches. He speaks in Cinema Club all the time, but this is much different, even though it’s not a crowd watching him, but one person. That, ironically, makes it worse. Two eyes he cares about are worse than thirty eyes he’ll never speak to in any other context.  
  
She pulls back, like she’s trying to see his face clearly, and Charlie thinks that is what she’s doing. He has no idea what’s going through her head as she takes him in, as her eyes are lit with an emotion that is obviously not sorrow, because he’s never, ever seen it at all, let alone in person, before.  
  
“Yeah, I was thinking that, too,” she says, breaking to sniffle. “I...I don’t need him.”  
  
Charlie longs to ask if this was all she came over for, but he doesn’t want to offend her. He’s truly the gentleman that Trevor could never be, at least in his own mind.  
  
“Yeah, I mean...” Charlie says, recalling all of the terrible things Kirby and Olivia have said about Trevor when he and Jill weren’t present. When he punched Robbie in the gut for making a joke about his clothes, Kirby called him an egotist with no sense of humor. Olivia regularly referred to him as Jill’s personal white knight. Most of the conversations about him were negative in general, because they viewed him as overprotective and obnoxious. He used to make Jill show him all of her text messages before she sent them, and that was only the outside veneer on the wood cabinet that was his creepiness. Charlie used to think that Kirby and Olivia hated Trevor because he loved Jill so much, until he learned about the text message thing, but, obviously, now that Trevor’s cheated on her, he’s forced to think that, maybe, he never loved her, and it was because he was a control freak. "No offense, but nobody actually liked him. We all thought he was a complete asshole.”  
  
“You guys were right, I guess,” Jill whines into Charlie’s sleeve, which he can feel is growing wet with her tears. “I’m always wrong about guys. Now I feel like I’m never going to find anyone who loves me…”  
  
Jill leans back up and gazes around the room, to the posters, back—now her eyes are back on Charlie, and directly so, with full eye contact.  
  
“But fuck Trevor. He couldn’t please me anyway."

A smile rises across her pink cheeks in the direct opposite of the emotion that she was just feeling, and it’s so weird, to see her smiling while actively crying sheets of tears.

“What I really need is someone like you," she adds. "Someone who listens to me. Someone who appreciates me.”  
  
Charlie’s breath catches in his throat the moment she puts her hand on his thigh.  
  
What _is_ this?  
  
It occurs to him that she might be trying to use him to make Trevor jealous, but by the time he realizes that, her mouth is already hot over his, and Charlie Walker has had his first kiss.  
  
And, suddenly, he doesn’t care if she uses him anymore.  
  
It is a fervent intensity, something Charlie only could have dreamed of; she’s pressed so tightly to him that he can feel the bulge of her breasts heaving against his chest, and he can smell the scent of whatever shampoo she used, like sage and wildflowers, as it fills every rushed breath that he struggles out between her leaning back to breathe and her kissing him again. He can hear his heart thumping in his head, every beat like a wave crashing onto a beach. She’s so warm, in her mouth, in general, and it gets him going, to know that she’s alive, she’s real, and she might have feelings for him, after all this time of him waiting for Kirby to bow beneath his constant failed attempts at flirting.  
  
Maybe Charlie, who always knew that he was lying in wait for someone, was always wrong about who that someone would be.  
  
The part of Charlie’s brain dedicated to fantasy, usually used to brainstorm ideas for his next Saw fanfiction where Daniel Matthews actually enjoyed killing people and got a bit of a taste for it, instead of it just being something he did once out of self-defense and desperation… that part of his brain lights up in a rave, flashing, colors, movement, at the possibility that, while Jill was with Trevor, she was thinking about Charlie instead.  
  
Charlie likes that idea, as impossible as it all seems. Then again, he doesn’t think that she did this all on a whim. There’s too much tension here for that to be the case. Maybe when Trevor fucked her, she pretended that he had Charlie’s curtain of long, thick hair, that he was scrawnier and smaller and a bit more shy about what he was doing. Maybe that did it for her, and she climaxed thinking only of Charlie and never of Trevor.  
  
When Jill pulls away, this time with some sense of permanence, Charlie can barely see straight; the edges of his vision blur, and his head seems to bob rhythmically up and down with every fading breath.  
  
“I want you,” she whispers. Her face is still flushed from crying, but her eyes have swapped tears for desire. “Trevor cheated on me, and I hate that, but it freed me. It freed me to be with you, Charlie… Fuck me. Please. I’m on the pill.”  
  
She puts a hand on his chest, and his eyes chase it, and Charlie feels a little twinge ignite down between his legs.  
  
Oh, _fuck_ yes.  
  
Charlie can’t speak an answer; he opens his mouth and the sounds don’t come to him, as if someone drained his every understanding of language out of his head. But he knows he wants Jill, and he doesn’t need words for him to push her down onto his bed, her head leaned up against her bag, and start to unbutton her blouse.  
  
It’s only then that he notices how the fabric hugs her breasts, showing off their curves, their size—she planned this. She came here solely to seduce him.  
  
And, fuck, is that shit working!  
  
Charlie can feel himself starting to stiffen up as Jill’s bra comes into view; that seems too tight, too, and it draws his attention to what she has to offer him, not that he’s really needed help with that, being seventeen and sexually frustrated. He has to pause for a moment, to take it all in, but it’s a moment Jill doesn’t notice, because he’s back to unbuttoning her blouse and even cementing the fact that he’s paying attention by kissing her neck, her collarbone, and nipping the skin around her throat. She lets out a long, rough moan, and Charlie nearly cums right there.  
  
Once he picks her up and slides her out of her blouse, he tosses it behind him, not really caring where it lands. Then he’s down to her jeans, and he manages to peel her out of them without much difficulty, and certainly less difficulty than he was expecting. He thinks that they end up roughly in the same area as the blouse, but he doesn’t check to confirm his suspicions. That leaves her in her underwear, right in front of him, and Charlie feels his heart pick up speed in his chest.  
  
He's about to undress himself when she leans forward to start the job with her deft little fingers, and he doesn't reject her, keeping his hands on the bed below to give her a little more control. Any touch from her is something he can't resist. It is as if someone took Charlie, splayed him out on a table, jammed a straw into his body, and forcibly pumped out all of his anxiety, all of his apprehension, and replaced it with one single desire—her. Charlie thinks everyone in the world who's dead died wanting more, sad and frustrated and beaten down by the knowledge that what’s evaded them their whole lives will never come, but Charlie knows he won’t die that way, even though he’s spent four years believing he would, that his life would be a marathon he wouldn’t win, something he’d finish feeling sore and tired and filled with self-loathing. He will die satisfied as long as he lives all the way through fucking her, and he knows it, and it relieves him.  
  
Jill’s fingers freeze on the third button down. Charlie’s breath catches in his throat. Maybe she’s in the process of realizing what a horrible idea this is, when it’s really not a horrible idea at all. He can fuck her. She can be fucked. No consequences, no problem, because Kirby is indecisive and Trevor is off pounding a bottle blonde with tits bigger than her own future. According to Jill, she wanted Charlie while she was with Trevor. If she wanted him so badly, why’s she backing out now?  
  
Then one of her hands slides down over his, the other still tugging on his shirt, and the look in Jill’s dark eyes makes Charlie reconsider every thought he just had about her.  
  
“Come on, Charlie,” she coos to him, empty encouragement that he doesn’t need and that seems to wink to him. “I’m not gonna get out of this bra on my own...”  
  
Charlie swallows. He reaches behind Jill and starts to undo the hook with one hand—he has no idea what he’s doing, and it seems even more difficult doing whatever it is he’s trying with only one hand, but he gets it. He actually _gets_ it, and she bats her eyelashes as if to try to act innocent and push the blame for something onto someone else. The bra falls onto the bed. They leave it. She keeps unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
Charlie rests his fingers on Jill’s collarbone, then slides them down her bare chest until he’s got one hand on her breast; he likes the weight of what’s in his hand, so he squeezes it a little bit, eliciting a squeak of interested surprise from her. A little smile perks at the corner of her lips—she whines his name again, and with his hand on her chest, she continues the job of undressing him, until his shirt is dangling open and hanging off him.  
  
Charlie tugs away long enough to pull it off. It, too, ends up in a remote corner of the room.  
  
Now, he knows that the fun part awaits him.  
  
Her fingers find his fly and then toy with the button of his jeans. Looking at her obviously pretending to struggle with the button, something Charlie knows she’s faking because of his diet of sugar-free Red Bull and furious masturbation contributing to a minor weight loss off his already-thin frame over the past month or so, making it impossible for the button to be as sticky as she claims, only builds Charlie’s inner tension, his inner need for her. Jill plays around with it for a moment before glancing up at him, the look in her eyes acknowledging that she’s too, too certain of what exactly it is she’s doing.  
  
And then she’s pushing him down onto his back so she can yank him right out of those jeans, and Charlie is certain that this is what heaven feels like. When she wriggles them off his body, she throws them in a heap on the floor immediately next to the bed, and, then, she goes for his boxers with one hand and his face with the other.  
  
Her hand strokes his cheek and her opposite hand grips his bulge through the fabric—Charlie bites his lip. He couldn’t escape if he wanted to; she’s on her knees, right over him.  
  
And he most certainly doesn’t want to.  
  
She rubs at him for a moment, base to tip, teasing, before she tugs him out of his boxers, too. Then she’s pulling him up onto his knees and lying back to strip her panties down her thighs. Those end up somewhere on the floor, probably with the jeans.  
  
Nothing is left to Charlie’s imagination. Not anymore.  
  
She’s hairless, and her clit is swollen and red, engorged into a thick button that leans out between her folds. All Charlie can think about is how much he needs the taste, the smell, the velvet wetness forced against his aching tongue. He leans in, pressing his belly to the mattress, and he inhales the scent wafting off her lips, sweet and musky all at once. He barely manages to drag it out a little longer, for her sake, leaving speckles of kisses up the soft skin of her inner thighs.  
  
He stops where he is and peers up at her for a moment, hesitating because he cannot believe it’s her who he’s about to do this to and not Kirby. But it makes very little difference to him in the thick of what’s about to happen to them; she might be his second choice girl, but, right now, she’s his muse, his inspiration for life and his motivation to breathe, and that drags him away from his thoughts of Kirby with very little resistance from him.

Jill’s dark eyes scream for sex, and when her lower lip slides beneath her teeth, pinched, she nips it, as if to coerce him onward. Her gaze meets his, and, desperate, bright, it begs him forth without her saying a single word.  
  
And before Charlie can think about it, or stop himself, or consider that Jill might not feel anything genuine for him but lust, he presses his mouth onto her slit, and she lets out a little, muffled gasp that makes his heart stir in his chest, fluttering in wild circles beneath his ribs. He’s never done _anything_ like this before, but he tries to mimic what in his head seems like it would feel good to her, and this results in him moving his tongue back and forth, back and forth, back and forth over her swollen clit, rocking it in gentle but very loopy circles. The rest of his mouth settles into a suckling motion, taking in her moisture and sliding his lips around her softest parts. Jill cries out again, overwhelmed, too aroused by what he’s doing to her to stop herself or to reform her yelping into something more coherent.

Charlie doesn’t stop. His cock burns on his underside, and he longs to insert it deep inside her, but her pleasure, the pleasure of the girl who’s finally going to free him from his bitter cage of unfeeling and bitter virginity, means much more to him, and he keeps going, too stubborn to quit. The movie _Teeth_ is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

She’s warm and she feels like velvet, and it seems to tug him in further, like she’s calling to him from the deepest end of a tunnel, beckoning him forward. He stops for a moment and laps over her folds one last time before he focuses his full attention, and entire mouth, in on her clit. He swipes his tongue over the tip of the nub, pushing it around on the base, and he uses a bit of suction with his lips, and this gets Jill squeaking and crying, each little noise more desperate than the last. Her breaths are losing rhythm, losing strength—that makes him aware of what a good job he’s doing.

Charlie tugs away for air; he can feel the thick strings of moisture dripping off his face, and his breathing comes heavy, quick, from suppressing his urge for oxygen for so long. But he doesn’t neglect her, despite his needs tearing them apart. He couldn’t bring himself to. With two fingers, he rubs Jill’s swollen clit around in a tight, quick motion, just long enough to give himself a much-needed break.

Or not, really. He doesn’t feel like he’s either earned or deserves a single thing when he's around her. She’s a girl he felt like he barely knew twenty minutes ago, but, now, she’s his god, and he is weak and must kneel at her power.

Jill whispers something Charlie doesn’t hear, but he does feel the hand that comes over the back of his scalp and pushes his face right back into her slit, right back into the action, and he definitely feels the thighs clenching around his face, keeping him down and trapped. At first, he wants to protest, because he wasn’t quite done with his rest. But the words are smothered away with Jill’s sweet, reddened flesh, and he figures that he’s too quiet to fight back, anyway. So he licks furiously, with a maddening speed, and as soon as the fingers that were stroking Jill come to rest at her thigh, he feels Jill tense up, and he feels the nails that grind into his sensitive skin, and he hears the scream that fires from her as she finally lets go, unable to stand it anymore.  
  
But it’s not just any scream. It’s a scream of Charlie’s name. She’s in the moment and nowhere else. He belongs to her, and she acknowledges that, and all is well.  
  
And Charlie is so hard that he can feel himself throbbing, the full awareness of his pulse erupting beneath his skin the only sense radiating through him. He licks harder, faster, for what seems to be forever, while Jill bucks her hips and thrashes around, too caught up in herself to even so much as consider staying still. She sort of tones herself down as things fade off, her movements becoming smoother, less erratic, before dissipating completely and leaving her still and motionless but panting loud enough for Charlie to hear.  
  
Charlie is finally allowed to put his head up; Jill lets go of her grip on him and gives him permission to peer back up at her with an expression on his face that he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to label even if he saw it for himself, because Charlie isn’t sure of this feeling or how he should express it.  
  
“Oh my God, Charlie,” Jill whispers to him, and Charlie swallows, because he knows what he’s going to be expected to do, and it fills his body with flickering anticipation. “Get in me. I can’t do this anymore.”

There’s the command. Her words are low, wispy, and just the right frequency to make every hair on Charlie’s body ease upright. And Charlie can’t do this anymore, either, so he gets up on his knees and inserts his engorged cock into his palm, right down to the base. He pushes forward and steadies the head against her folds. With his other hand, he slides her thighs a little further apart, one leg at a time. Then he eases his throbbing, starving cock into her burning warmth, slow, patient, as he, as always, considers himself to be.  
  
She’s so soft, so delicate, and her depth seems to engulf him entirely, clinging desperately to every part of him that wants to be clung to, like she’s holding him in her arms as they lie in a field, watching the stars. She’s also silky, and smooth, and everything inside her moves just as it should.  
  
And her heat. Her _heat_. It consumes him, right to his trembling core. He needs it so badly that his mind can focus on nothing but it.  
  
A whimper catches in her mouth as he puts both hands on her thighs and starts to jerk his hips, pushing up to her barrier before tugging himself out again in long, uncertain strokes that he figures are some kind of involuntary tactic employed by his body to get used to her feel, its protest that this is nothing like masturbation and its attempt to adjust accordingly. But his body is the _only_ thing that argues, and he doesn’t really consider it an argument at all. It’s more akin to jumping into a pool during the very dead of summer; it is cold, uncomfortable, and the body is left to struggle as it tries to grapple its new surroundings, but it feels nice, despite all that, and the mind prepares itself for all the relief it’s about to receive.  
  
Charlie bites his lip, fighting back a moan. So good. So, so good. He pulls out only to push back again with magnified intensity, every thrust growing a little stronger and a little more sure of itself than the last.  
  
Jill is a mess of squeaks and moans beneath Charlie, and when he leans in to kiss her collarbone, hoping to work his way down to her breasts, she’s writhing in pleasure and he can barely hold her down long enough to get his lips to make contact with the exact spot he wants them to. He pumps deeper, harder—he can only imagine the beating her tight hole is taking—and when he’s done with her, he’s sure she’s going to be sore and stumbling in circles for a week.  
  
He lets his lips caress her skin, leaving a little line of kisses down to her nipple. He allows the bud into his mouth and laps his tongue around the swollen, erect tip, which feels much larger in his mouth than it looks from the outside.  
  
Then he feels a burst of pain sliding down his back; Jill’s clawing him with her nails, probably too enthralled in her own satisfaction to hold back. He lets go of her nipple and allows himself to pant close enough to her chest that he’s sure she can feel his hot breath against her skin. He likes that idea. He likes it way, _way_ too much.  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Charlie rasps through gritted teeth, right next to her neck. “Fuck me up, baby. I’m your bitch.”  
  
“Fuck me harder and I will,” Jill spits back, but there’s a lack of genuine venom in it—as socially oblivious as he is, he can sense that she’s only saying it to rile him up.  
  
So, with her goal fully realized, him riled, Charlie leans up and thrusts his hips as fast as he can, sliding in and out of her sopping pussy until all he can hear are her moans that beg for God and the wet smack of flesh against flesh. He can feel the way she stretches to fit him whenever he forces his way inside of her, still small and tight and narrow despite the abuse he’s subjecting her to. He’ll change that. He’s pretty sure Trevor wasn’t big enough to destroy her body like he can.  
  
That thought gives Charlie a small dose of amusement. Fuck Trevor. He can go drive drunk and die in a car crash or hit his head doing a backflip into a quarry or get chopped up by Jason Voorhees or however stupid jocks like him are supposed to die. Jill loves Charlie now, not him. And Charlie is completely okay with all of that.  
  
Jill’s tensing up beneath him, and her little noises are morphing into long, high shrieks. He can feel the lava bubbling in the deepest pit of his belly, too. He’s going as hard and as fast and as deep as he physically can—he can feel her barrier rubbing against the head of his cock whenever he ends up all the way inside of her, but if it hurts, like he thought something like that would, she shows no indication—and, soon, it’ll be time for him to climax, too. But he wants her to break first, because he feels some kind of gratitude towards her for finally confessing her love and letting him free from the endless dance to win Kirby’s heart that left him sore and tired at all hours of the day.  
  
“Charlie,” she breathes in a shaky, warbling voice, shutting her eyes. She grabs for his waist and tries to tug him forward so he’ll lean down toward her.  
  
He does so, obedient, but not for a second slowing his pace, and he wonders if she’s going to hurt him some more, now that he’s satisfied her requirements. He wants to be hurt. Anything for her. _Anything_. And if it pleases him, too, then that is a bonus.  
  
That’s exactly what he gets.  
  
Once she has a strand of his hair wrapped tight in her closed fist, she tugs, making pain surge through his scalp and tears water in his eyes, and that is when she starts to wiggle and cry out louder than she’s cried yet. The pressure in her body becomes pressure in her hand; the more intense her climax becomes, the more she verbalizes and expresses it, the more she pulls at his hair, like she’s trying to rip it out of his head.  
  
He grimaces, but he’s confined to his want for it as if by barbed wire and concrete walls. He doesn’t feel himself start to speak; it’s almost more of an afterthought. But the words escape his clenched teeth.  
  
“Almost, babe, I’m gonna...”  
  
Jill pulls her hand up and jerks his hair again. The pain stutters his pleasure, but, then, it returns, full force, stronger.  
  
Too much stronger. His body tenses up, and then...  
  
Fuck.  
  
He’s stammering in his existence, stumbling forward only to teeter on the edge of something great. And, then, someone takes a sledgehammer to his entire world and shatters it into millions of tiny shards. It’s a splintering frenzy, a storm, a rollercoaster, something that builds and then takes him in a short, wild rush before dissipating again.  
  
Before he knows it, it’s gone, and he looks down at himself as he pulls out, his vision hazy and trembling in static at the edges, but just clear enough for him to see the flood of white he’d spilled oozing out of Jill’s battered entrance along with his drooping, exhausted cock.  
  
He’s proud. He’s left her this way. He was enough. In his opinion, she’s made a good choice, to be with him, and he thinks that, maybe, that’s her opinion, too, because she’s lying there with her eyes closed, chest heaving, breaths slower but still significantly more flustered than they are when at rest. She’s let go of his hair, dropped her arm like it suddenly lost all muscle control—now, all he sees in her is a silent fatigue, absent of the dictatorial control she held over him not twenty seconds prior.  
  
Charlie flops down next to her and presses his nose to her cheek. Breathing softly, he addresses her with the only words he can say in the aftermath of such a stunning finale.  
  
“That was amazing,” he whispers.  
  
She only answers him with a smile.  
  
They lie there for a few minutes, soaking in the sensation as it oozes away from their bodies. Charlie spends the time watching her breathe. He still cannot begin to grasp that another living, breathing human being, just like him, actually loves him enough, or at least wants him enough, to have sex with him.  
  
Then Jill rises to a sitting position, still bare, still quiet, and he follows her. She reaches for her bag and gets something out of it.  
  
A knife?  
  
The breath catches in Charlie’s throat. Surely, she’s not about to try _that_ with him…  
  
She digs around in the bag again.  
  
A Ghostface mask, too?  
  
Kinky bitch.  
  
She holds the mask and the knife out to him, and, at first, Charlie stares blankly ahead at them, unsure of what it is she wants from him. At first, he stays on the misguided thought that she wants to spice up what is already a very spicy sex life. Then it hits him, and he’s not sure what to say except that she might just be his soulmate.  
  
It must have flashed in his eyes that he realized the point, because a smirk, much wider than it ought to be, slides across her face the moment he becomes aware of what she’s offering him, the promise she’s trying to make.  
  
“Sidney coming to town at the end of the month is all anyone ever talks about… I was thinking that we give her and Trevor a little surprise.”  
  
Charlie takes a deep breath.  
  
“I’m in.”


End file.
